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booth, and came out.
    “No need to bother,” said Montalbano, “all I need is—”
    “All you need is for someone to bust your face,” said the porter, raising a clenched fist.
    Montalbano cringed and took a step back.
    What was this guy’s problem?
    “Wait, listen, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m looking for a Signor Piritone and I am—”
    “You better make yourself scarce, and fast—I mean it.”
    Montalbano lost patience.
    “I’m Inspector Montalbano, goddammit!”
    The man looked surprised.
    “Really?”
    “Would you like to see my ID?”
    The porter turned red in the face.
    “Christ, it’s true! Now I rec’nize ya! I’m sorry, I thought you were somebody tryin’ t’ fuck wit’ me. I apologize, sir. But look, there’s nobody here named Piritone.”
    Naturally, Catarella, as usual, had given him the wrong name.
    “Is there anyone with a similar name?”
    “There’s a
dottor
Peritore.”
    “That could be him. What floor?”
    “Third.”
    The porter walked him to the elevator, endlessly excusing himself and bowing.
    It occurred to Montalbano that one of these days Catarella, by screwing up every name he gave him, was going to get him shot by someone who was a little on edge.

    The slender, blond, well-dressed, bespectacled man of about forty who opened the door for the inspector was not as obnoxious as the inspector had hoped.
    “Good morning, I’m Montalbano.”
    “Please come in, Inspector, just follow me. I was forewarned of your visit. Naturally the apartment is a mess; my wife and I didn’t want to touch anything before you saw it.”
    “You’re right, I should have a look around.”
    Bedroom, dining room, guest room, living room, study, kitchen, and two bathrooms, all turned upside down.
    Armoires and cabinets thrown open, contents scattered all over the floor, a bookcase completely emptied, books strewn everywhere, desks and consoles with all their drawers open.
    Policemen and burglars had one thing in common when searching somebody’s home: even an earthquake left things in slightly better order.
    In the kitchen was a young woman of about thirty, also blonde, pretty and polite.
    “This is my wife, Caterina.”
    “Would you like some coffee?” the woman asked.
    “Sure, why not?” said the inspector.
    After all, the kitchen was less topsy-turvy than any of the other rooms.
    “Maybe it’s best if we talk in here,” said Montalbano, sitting down in a chair.
    Peritore did the same.
    “The front door didn’t look forced to me,” the inspector continued. “Did they come in through the windows?”
    “No, they just used our keys,” said Peritore.
    He stuck a hand in his pocket, took out a set of keys, and set them on the table.
    “They left them in the entrance hall.”
    “I’m sorry. So you weren’t home when the burglary occurred?”
    “No. Last night we slept at our seaside house, at Punta Piccola.”
    “Ah. And how did you get in if the burglars had your keys?”
    “I always keep an extra set with the porter.”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. So where did the burglars get the keys they used to enter your apartment?”
    “From our seaside house.”
    “While you were asleep?”
    “Exactly.”
    “And they didn’t steal anything from that house?”
    “They certainly did.”
    “So in fact there were two robberies?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I beg your pardon, Inspector,” said Signora Caterina, pouring his coffee. “Maybe it’s better if
I
tell you. My husband is having trouble putting his thoughts in order. So. This morning we woke up around six, both of us with headaches. And we immediately realized that someone had broken in through the front door of our seaside home, knocked us out with some sort of gas, and had the run of the place.”
    “You didn’t hear anything?”
    “Nothing at all.”
    “Strange. Because, you see, they had to break through your front door before they could gas you. You just said so yourself. And